a haunting in London
by bittercritic
Summary: Just because Marianne is dead doesn't mean she's alright with some ridiculous Englishman moving into her flat. Human AU. UK/fem!France.


The quiet peace and sanctity of death that Marianne had so been enjoying—in a whimsical, philosophical sort of way, of course—had been broken both suddenly and _loudly_ by the angry Englishman that was to become her housemate. Their first meeting was to be a glorious spectacle of the worst sort—because no proper Frenchwoman would want the uncouth, foul-mouthed Arthur Kirkland in her final resting place.

It was something Marianne had thought a lot about at first, right after she died. What next? Where did she go, what did she do with herself, and why? What would happen to her very stylish and nicely furnished apartment? What if someone moved in and she couldn't make them leave? What if they stained the wood floors or broke the already faulty sink?

Such were the concerns of the recently deceased, of course.

She had her moments of seriousness, though. They were far between, but made her sad. She had been a social person in life, fun-loving and charismatic. She thought about it frequently, how she compared now to her living self. It sounded like a bad singles' advert for a date in the paper, "fun-loving twenty-something blonde, single and fancy-free." Her life summed up. And she recalled how people might remember her. Her parents or friends or old school mates. She'd always been inclined to philosophical musings, and now was no different.

But to consider what happens after death and to actually live it, so to speak, were two entirely different things. She hadn't woken up until after her funeral, too, and had always wondered who had attended, and where she'd been buried.

Any ponderings now had to be put on hold though, in favour of dealing with the Kirkland nuisance.

Maybe he wasn't a _bad_ sort, but he had the misfortune of moving into Marianne's old flat, and that was enough of a justification for any events that should transpire hereafter. It would be fun. For her.

Arthur, on the other hand, was very much alive, and very much displeased with his new flat. Not that the building itself was bad—it was a nice little brick thing, remodelled from an old factory probably. A bit shabby, a bit eighties, but someone had put some lovely flower boxes outside the windows and the whole place was rather quaint and perhaps more fitting for bachelorettes and fairy tales than twenty-somethings working retail.

Not that that last bit was voluntary, really—in an ideal world he would already be working on his master's degree and perhaps writing that book or even doing research in the vast and wonderful field of history by now. But ideal worlds are rarely real ones, and such is the life of the middle class.

He'd been in luck to find this flat, anyways. It was cheap but didn't have anything deadly living in it, ideal for his budget. He was not going to give it up just because something _dead_ inhabited it. (Because to say that she lived there was far too bad a pun.)

She had first brought his attention upon her existence while he was unpacking some of his things—the place was even furnished, what a great deal! Stacks of books going onto the shelf while he's half crouched there, and then suddenly someone is _yanking his pants down_ in a display of immaturity he would expect from _children._ And the sound he let out, for the record, was absolutely and not in any way a _shriek_, it's a manly cry of indignation.

And that's where it begins. Marianne giggled and twittered in the most annoying way she could manage while Arthur hunted about the flat for a belt and then suddenly it's like they're the worst possibly enemies who aren't actually sharing space.

The next few months are a series of trials on Arthur's patience. His work at the bookstore, tedious though it is, has suddenly become a haven of the utmost peace and serenity. Because even mothers dragging their screaming children through isles is better than listening to the dead frog in his flat curse the air blue at his cooking, and even re-alphabetizing the entirety of the mystery section is better than coming home to find that his laundry basket has been slept in by stray cats Marianne let in through the door.

They have some interesting times.

Marianne spends a lot of time talking about how wonderful Paris is, and how the cafes were wonderful and there was this one little place that served the greatest coffee—a thought Arthur quickly cuts off by mentioning how utterly dead she is and how sustenance means little.

"Well maybe I was suggesting it for _you_, darling," she snipes back. "You could use a little food. One can only live on charcoal for so long."

And another night, once Arthur is home from work:

It's less sarcastic than their usual. The initial rush of animosity and bitterness at Arthur's takeover of her former flat had lessened, and their arguments were now only quips and shows of one-upmanship. The neighbours once remarked that he and his girlfriend must spend a lot of time on the telephone, at which Marianne cackled merrily.

"If you hate London so much," he begins, "why did you come to live here?"

Marianne shrugs, the same jumper she'd been wearing since the first time he saw her falling off one shoulder. "Perhaps I'm a masochist." She dragged the fabric back up and hugged it around her neck, nose tucked into the collar and voice muffled. "Or a glutton for punishment."

"Well," Arthur says, wondering if she even _got_ cold. "I should think that would be an ingrained trait of the French, what with all the wars you lot have lost."

He dodges the book she tosses at his head and feels like James Bond.

The next morning, Marianne is singing La Marseillaise loud and off-key. He counters with what he believes to be an absolutely _rousing_ rendition of Rule, Britannia and soon they're like two angry dorm mates, each trying to blast their music louder than the other.

Unfortunately, it so happens that he's the only one that can _hear_ Marianne, and soon enough the neighbour from the next building over is leaning halfway out into the alleyway between their flats, telling him to shut up. Arthur goes red in the face and apologizes profusely while Marianne laughs behind him.

That night he has a strange awkward dream that he can't remember when he wakes up, and when his eyes finally slide open in the wee hours of the morning, Marianne is sitting next to him on the bed, stroking his hair like you would a sleeping child, or a cat.

"What...are you doing?" He asked at last, rubbing sleep away from his eyes.

"Oh nothing." She poked his forehead, wary of eyebrows. Her hands are cold and don't feel quite there. The atmosphere is oddly serious, like she's been thinking again. And just like that, it's gone. "Just comforting the poor dear through his nightmares. The poor dear is you, by the way."

"Frog, _get out_."

"Arthur, I'm _dead_! I'm stuck here with you! _Forever!"_

For a second Arthur considers smothering himself in the pillow, but then they really _would_ be stuck in the flat forever. Instead he just groans in company with Marianne's melodramatic wails.

One day Arthur thinks he is finally going to go insane, and calls and exorcist to make her go away. She grumbles and scuffs her feet but he tells her there's no choice and wouldn't you like to be gone from me?

"Oh _fine_."

The exorcist comes and does the spiritual equivalent of pushing Marianne out the door. She calls one last cheerful "Fuck you too, darling!" before she goes.

And the flat was plunged into blessed silence but for the leaky faucet.


End file.
